Deadly Things
by Vague Apparitions
Summary: A tale of ghosts, revenge, madness, and a nightmarish hospital of the insane, an asylum known as "Sanatorium Mortifera." What happens when Danny is sent there and witnesses unspeakable horrors and a murderous plot for an uprising? EXTENDED SUMMARY INSIDE.
1. Preface

**Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom. Butch Hartman does.**

**Extended Summary: **_Slight AU. _After the events of "The Fenton Menace," Danny's parents begin to notice Danny's ghost-fighting injuries. Believing that the wounds are self-inflicted, they seek professional help for their son. Unfortunately, the psychiatrist is corrupt and is working for the Sanitorium Mortifera - a place where the patients are seen as worthless test subjects. After being sent there for the asylum's blood money, Danny finds himself in a place of death and madness, in the midst of human-eating canines, ranks of revengeful ghosts, concealed cannibalism, and the insane Head Surgeon. Danny cannot escape in spite of his powers, for the ghosts have a plan for him - a plan which will bring about a patient uprising and the end of Sanitorium Mortifera.

**Author's Note: **This is a fanfic I based on a story I wrote. In addition, this is my very first fanfiction, and I'd love some feedback and/or suggestions. Please read and review!

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**Preface**

In a dilapidated room on the top floor, a young boy – no more than fifteen, perhaps, or sixteen – sat seemingly-alone in nearly-pitch darkness, save for the weak light seeping through the cracks in the roof above his head. His body was bound in the decrepit tatters of what was once a proper straitjacket, and the restraint's time-worn remains did their job perfectly fine.

In the corner sat a man, unseen by all except the boy. He was not concealed by the enveloping shadows; in fact, he was a part of them. He moved as one, fading and receeding as they did, moving within the blink of an eye, and scarcely did the man leave those dark recesses of the institution. For that, the boy was grateful.

The boy was not fightened by the man; he understood what the man was, and felt no fear, for the boy had seen others like him. It was the man's _appearance _which sickened the boy. Even though the man's form was vague within the blackness of the room, the boy could see well enough to know that the man had only half a face. The other half of the man's visage had festered away, as did much of the man's other visible flesh. The man's forehead looked as if an axe had been hacked across it; however, unsucessfully at first, for there were other marks like it. From the skeletal side of the man's face, it was obvious that whatever instrument used to create the marks had penetrated the skull, slicing (or, rather, chopping) off the cap of the skull. The others, to the boy's disgust, were typically much like the man in appearance. . . Some were better, even slightly. . . And some were much, much worse. . .

The man caught the boy staring and said in a rough, somehow ashy voice, "Labotomy."

The boy blanched.

"I'm surprised that you can see me," the man remarked after what seemed hours of silence.

"That's because you and I aren't that different," the boy replied. His voice cracked as he spoke – he hadn't spoken in what seemed like ages. _No, we're not that different,_ he thought. _Maybe we're practically the same. . . How would I know? Maybe I'm dead now, too, and I just don't know it yet. . . Maybe. . ._

"What color are my eyes?" the boy asked suddenly.

". . . Blue," the man responded after a minute or so.

"Then I'm still. . alive."

_But only half. . ._

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**Author's Notes:** Well, here it is: the preface of my first fanfiction ever. Please review! Feedback - both negative and positive - is appreciated, but thoughtless flamers will be promptly sent to the head surgeon. What did you think? Hungry for more, or is this fanfic for the flesh-eating dogs? ;)


	2. Paranoia

**Disclaimer: Danny Phantom is not mine, mental disorders do not belong to anyone, and Sanitorium Mortifera is mine alone.**

**Author's Notes:** I'd like to thank all of those who have read and reviewed my story. I'm so glad that everyone is enjoying it so far, even though the preface is quite short. By reviewing and putting this story in your story alerts, you guys honestly motivate me to keep updating. That is extraordinarily helpful.

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**Chapter One**  
**Paranoia**

Each night, usually well after his curfew of ten-o'-clock at night, Danny would creep in through the front door. The boy made scarcely any noise at all, though the creaking of the door gave him away. And each night, Jack and Maddie Fenton would listen for that very creaking, as they had grown accustomed to, and each night, Danny would receive a stern talking-to, maybe even a grounding, provided that he wasn't already grounded.

As time passed, Maddie noticed more than curfew-breaking. She noticed her son's sleep-deprivation, his irritability, his tendency to run off at a moment's notice, his increasing depression. . . .

. . . And then she began to notice the injuries. Cuts, scars, bruises, scrapes, some worse than others. If he had any scars, they wouldn't be incredibly visible – his skin was too sallow. In fact, it seemed that, with each passing day, he appeared increasingly ill. Apart from his deathly-pale skin, his hair was more unkempt than usual, lines formed beneath his eyes from lack of sleep, his skin was always _freezing_, he was unable to concentrate on his schoolwork. . . or anything at all, for that matter, and he seemed to be developing some sort of paranoia.

The paranoia reached its kismet around the time of the Fentons' ghost-free camping trip. Danny had insisted that there was a ghost nearby at all times, and he would even interact with it. Maddie had wondered if Danny thought he truly was seeing a ghost, and she had also wondered if it was all a cry for attention. She didn't know much about psychology – she was a ghost-hunter and an inventor, not a psychiatrist –, but it was obvious that there was something seriously wrong with Danny. Jack's only suggestion was to "spin the crazy out of him," though_ that_ seemed to make things only worse.

Jazmine, who was fascinated with psychology, had thought that Danny was only stressed, and that his stress had been projected visually, most likely within a form of paranoia. "Paranoia_,_" said Jazz, "is thought to be related to schizophrenia, but I don't think it's _that_ serious. I think he's only really stressed. He has to deal with a lot, and I think it's just messing with him. He needs a break, is all."

The marks on Danny's body suggested that this _was_ serious. Unless he had either been getting into fights or accidents every day – and both were highly unlikely –, then Danny had been hurting himself. It was a sickening prospect, but cuts and bruises didn't make themselves.

"Mom! Dad!" Danny protested. "I am _not_ doing this to myself!"

Maddie sighed. Talking to him was going to be difficult. "Danny, sweetheart, we understand that you're under a lot of pressure. Jazz told us that you've been under a lot of stress. . ."

Danny's eyes grew wide for a moment. After swallowing hard, he choked out, "Wh-what did she tell you, exactly?"

Maddie raised an eyebrow, thinking that perhaps she and Jazz should have a chat later. "She said that you have to deal with a lot, and that maybe all of your stress is getting to you. Danny, I know high school isn't easy, but I don't understand why you need to take it out on yourself. I'm scared for you. I really am." She looked at Jack, who had said nothing as of yet. He was just as concerned as Maddie, but he had a difficult time dealing with serious matters. He was a man who had a tendency to make heavy moments feel lighter than they were, but now, he was quiet. Maybe he was thinking, but Maddie had no idea what was running through his head. "We're both worried about you. Is there anything _important_ you need to tell us? Anything at all?"

"Anything that has to do with ghosts?" Jack added. The question was surprisingly valid this time, keeping the camping incident in mind. Was Danny's "ghost" somehow connected to his injuries?

Danny looked down. Maybe he should tell them. Now was a better time than ever, especially since they were practically _asking_ for it. All he had to do was tell them, and they would understand. They would understand that he wasn't crazy, and that he wasn't hurting himself. They would understand that he why he was out late every night, and why his grades were in the toilet, and why he had been so tired every day.

_Would they understand?_

Several images flashed through Danny's head. A bright, concentrated light above him, and cold metal beneath. . . Restraints at his wrists, ankles, and perhaps his neck. . . A shining, silvery scalpel. . . Ectoplasm, a glowing, shockingly vivid neon lime. . . Deep, dark, scarlet blood. . . The scalpel, covered with his fluids, which had been mixed into a faintly-glowing, sickly brownish-black concoction. . . Smiles behind surgical masks, cruelly grinning at both the scientific and the paranormal discovery of the century. . .

He shivered. _No_, he thought, _I can't tell them. What if they don't accept it? I'll be dead. Literally. They can love a crazy kid - I know they can. . But what about a ghost_?

A new thought. _I can tell them some of the truth – not all of it! I won't lie to them, but telling them the truth doesn't mean that I have to tell them I'm half-ghost, does it? I can just leave that part out. They'll never know my secret, and even though I'll probably have to go for some counseling, at least I won't become some medical experiment._

"Actually," Danny confessed. "I_ do _have something to say. . about ghosts. I _didn't_ hurt myself. The ghosts did it."

Maddie seemed surprised, but Jack burst out, genuinely interested, "Where did you see them? What did they look like? Did they say anything to you?"

"Jack, please!" Maddie interrupted. She looked at Danny incredulously, desperately craving to believe him, longing for this madness to be real; if it was, then her son would be healthy. What mother wouldn't want that for her son? She knew that, unfortunately, reality was harsh, and mental disorders were much more realistic than the illusions created by them. "Are these the same kinds of ghosts you saw on the camping trip?"

Danny nodded. "Mom, I'm not making them up! That ghost was real, too! His name was Youngblood, and only kids can see him. . ."

"Danny, sweetie, there's no such thing as a ghost only kids can see," Maddie patronized. "Do you see these ghosts all the time?"

Danny was silent for a few moments. For a moment, he thought that his father had bought it. Resigned to the fact that, once one starts something, they must finish, he nodded slightly. He swallowed and pleaded in a weak, nearly-inaudible tone, "I'm not crazy, Mom. I'm not. Please believe me. I'm _not_ hurting myself. They're really real."

"Oh, Danny," Maddie replied, fighting back tears, "I wish they were."

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**Author's Notes:** Quite a heavy chapter, but a necessary one. Please take the time to review and let me know what you think! Words cannot express how much reviews inspire me!


	3. Schizophrenia

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, sans the asylum.**

**Author's notes: **Thanks to all of you who have read and reviewed. Your support and criticism means a lot to me.

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**Chapter Two**  
**Schizophrenia**

Danny supposed that the room was supposed to look homely, but it felt too much like what it truly was – an office. He sat on a sofa of black faux leather, scrutinizing the office contemptuously. He noted the well-stocked and neatly-lined bookshelves; the dark cherry desk with a top concealed by notebooks, pens, folders, and a nameplate which read "Dr. Grimm;" the faux fichus sitting in the corner; the faded plum wallpaper, printed in some swirling, floral Victorian-esque design; the multiple end tables brandishing various outdated magazines and tabloids, sometimes a lamp. He noticed that nearly everything was coated in a thin film of dust, sans the desk and most of its contents.

Dr. Grimm himself was a long, lanky, balding man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties. He wore a wiry pair of glasses perched upon his hooked nose, and a power-blue oxford shirt that appeared to be buttoned much too tight around his neck. As he entered the room and gathered a notebook and pen from his desk, he seemed to be analyzing Danny already. The psychiatrist's oddly-coloured, claret eyes quickly studied the boy from top-to-bottom, as if he was looking for psychosomatic evidence. The strange doctor grinned, and then said in a voice Danny had sworn he'd heard before, "Daniel Fenton, I presume?"

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"Schizophrenia? Are you sure?" Maddie asked, hoping, _praying _that there had been some mistake. After about two weeks of daily therapy sessions, Dr. Grimm had concluded that Danny was suffering from schizophrenia. Now, sitting in his office, Maddie wished that she had never sent her son here, but Dr. Grimm was the only psychiatrist in Amity Park. Danny was sitting next to her, sulking in the chair betwixt his parents, and Jack seemed to be distant, as he had been as of late. Jazmine was at home, studying. It was best that she wasn't there – it might upset her too much.

"Mrs. Fenton," said the therapist, "I am a professional. I've seen it many times, and there is no mistake. Your son is ill. He is in need of treatment."

"What kind of treatment?" Jack inquired dryly.

"He must be admitted into a mental hospital, a sanatorium. There is no other option."

"Why isn't there?" Maddie hissed. "Why do you need to take him away from his family? Can't you have medication prescribed for him?"

"Mrs. Fenton, your son has shown _violence_ as a result of his illness. Perhaps it is only self-inflicted now, but it may take a turn for the worse. Would you put yourself and your family at risk, including Daniel? What of your son? He needs to be in a controlled environment, where there is no chance of him hurting – or _killing _– himself and others."

Danny clenched his jaw. He had tried to remain silent, but when Dr. Grimm had mentioned the possibility of him committing suicide or murder, the last nail was hammered into the coffin of Danny's patience. Danny wasn't a murderer – the thought of it sickened him to his core – and he never would be. He stood and knocked the notebooks and folders from the desk, growling, "Don't you _dare_say that I'll kill them! I might see ghosts, but I'm no murderer! I don't belong in an asylum! That's where you're sending me, isn't it? You're calling it a 'hospital' and a 'sanatorium,' but that's just a nice way of saying that you're sticking me in an asylum with all the other Froot Loops! I am _not_a Froot Loop!"

Dr. Grimm's composure never wavered, though he did scowl a bit. When Maddie and Jack yanked Danny back into his seat, the psychiatrist replied, now smug, "Thank you for the display, Daniel." He sighed, and turned to Jack and Maddie. "As you can see, he isn't well, and he needs treatment. Schizophrenia is a very dangerous disease, Mr. and Mrs. Fenton. It eats away at the brain, causing tissue loss and hallucinations. Clearly, these delusions of ghosts are driving your son completely mad. I'm sorry, but he needs to be admitted into an institution. There _is_one – though it's quite far from here, in the Rocky Mountains – that specializes in these types of disorders. I highly recommend it for Daniel. The mountain air is said to work wonders. Until he is taken there, I will have him prescribed with liquid morpheus. Check him regularly for cuts, scratches, bite marks – that sort of thing – and_ do_ keep a close eye on the boy."

Danny immediately felt sick. If his parents kept a close eye on him, then how could he fight? If he was sent to an asylum, who would protect Amity Park? Maybe he should just tell his parents the truth. Maybe they'd believe him, and maybe they wouldn't, but he could prove it!

The image of a scalpel lacerated through Danny's mind as if his conscious were the object of a dissection. He felt the sickness rising into his throat and shivered.

Maddie was practically shaking with anxiety. Her son wasn't lucid, wasn't sane, wasn't in his right mind. As much as she hated to admit it, he _needed_ help. He needed to go to a sanatorium, even if it was miles and miles away, for his own sake. She swallowed hard. "Th-thank you, Dr. Grimm."

"You're quite welcome, Mrs. Fenton – may I call you 'Maddie?' Maddie, you haven't a thing to worry about! This is for the best. And, Danny, my boy, think of it as a vacation!"

Danny grimaced. _Yeah, a vacation. . with padded rooms and straitjackets. That's _really_ relaxing._

"Thank you, Dr. Grimm," Maddie repeated, standing. "Danny, say, 'Thank you.'"

"Yeah. Thanks," Danny grumbled as he rose from his chair, sarcasm leaking into his voice.

"Oh, you're quite welcome," Dr. Grimm replied, grinning as he watched the Fentons leave. "Quite welcome indeed."

Dr. Grimm's grin changed the second the family left his office – it became cruel and malicious, lacking pity and sympathy. It was the sort of grin one has when an evil, twisted plot was about to unfold, and the one smiling is the catalyst of it all. Indeed, Dr. Grimm was no humanitarian. In fact, "Dr. Grimm" didn't even exist. . at least, not anymore.

That smile only broadened as "Dr. Grimm" wrote his letter to the asylum, alerting them of their new patient, and of how _special_ this one was. He beamed as he penned his words. There was no need to write the address of the sanitarium's postal center on the front – he would personally deliver it, either to a guard or the Head Surgeon himself. A sense of accomplishment as he sealed the envelope, as if he had sealed Daniel's fate as well. In truth, he had.

"Leave it to a ridiculous child to let the entire Ghost Zone know of his plan to admit Danny Phantom into an asylum!" the faux-therapist and chess-master exclaimed triumphantly to himself, his eyes entirely glowing a violent scarlet. "And leave it to me to find the perfect one. . ."

The imposter's form changed from that of Dr. Grimm, the psychiatrist who was now precisely three months dead, and into that of Danny's sworn nemesis, a ghost – or, precisely, _half-ghost_ – with pallid, blue skin, ink-black hair, and eyes of fire.

The smile now brandished fierce, razor-sharp fangs.

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**Author's notes:** Dun, dun, DUN! A little twist in the plot does ye good! In "Ultimate Enemy," future Danny manipulated his form so that he can pose as his younger self. Thinking that it was a reasonable ghost power, I allowed Vlad to do the same here in order to impersonate Dr. Grimm. . . whom he killed. I hope you enjoyed Danny's small rant, especially the bit about the cereal. I smiled as I wrote it. :) Now, for all of you curious and/or worried, I _will_ have a chapter devoted to Sam, Jazz, Tucker, and possibly others. It may not be the next chapter, but the chapter I speak of _will_ happen. That being said, I can now beg for reviews.

Review, please! Can anyone spare a poor author a review? Review, I beg of thee! _Review!_


	4. Gone

**Disclaimer: Danny Phantom is not mine, nor will it ever be. How depressing.**

**Author's Notes:** Well, guys, I promised to show you a bit of Jazz, Tucker, and Sam. As it turns out, you'll be seeing a whole lot more of them, because I honestly believe they have become part of the plot. This is the great thing about writing - you add something in, and it appears to be a minor thing (where the plot is concerned) at first, and that small thing begins to flesh out the plot in your mind. . Suddenly, what was once a minor bit of the story has become a major part. Huzzah!

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**Chapter Three**  
**Gone**

Jazmine Fenton sat on the cement steps leading to the door of her home, staring in the direction the van had left in. How long had it been since it left? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? She noted for the first time that the sky was now – suddenly – a dusky sapphire; whereas, when they had taken Danny, the sky had been an overcast, opaque grey, dimly illuminated by the obscured Sun.

How fitting.

"I can't believe _he's gone_," someone – Tucker – said, breaking the constant silence. Tucker's voice was quiet, and he spoke as if freshly realizing that Danny was no longer there.

"I know," Sam replied, drastically more sullen than usual.

"I just hope all of this is for the best," said Jazz.

"Jazz, he _isn't _crazy," Sam stated.

"I know," Jazz agreed.

"How_ much_ do you know?" asked Sam.

"Uh, Sam? Do you think it's a good idea. . . ?" Tucker seemed nervous.

"Tucker, I don't know how much worse it can get," Sam answered, her voice mildly injected with venom.

"_Everything_. I know_ everything_," said Jazz. Her eyes were downcast – she did not notice the shocked expressions on the faces of Danny's friends.

"Then why did you let them take him?" Sam demanded. "If you know, then you also know how _important_ he is – not just to us, but to Amity Park, too."

Jazz felt the tears welling in her eyes. In her mind, she saw her younger brother – she saw his ashen skin, the bags beneath his eyes, the wild way his icy eyes flitted about his surroundings, the random shivering, the signs of depression and an unstable state of mind. . . "Sam, he looked _sick. _He was seeing ghosts that weren't there. Even if he's perfectly sane, he still isn't healthy. He needs rest, and he needs to stay away from ghosts. Danny's going to a mental hospital – it isn't like they are going to stick him in a straitjacket and lock him up in a padded room. Times have changed, and this isn't some horror movie. He. . He'll be okay. He's safe now."

Tucker involuntarily trembled upon the word "hospital." He said, "It doesn't sound like a very safe place. Augh. . . I _hate _hospitals."

"To _you_, it sounds unsafe," Sam corrected. "Look, Jazz, I understand that you care about Danny, but keeping him in a mental ward isn't going to help him. Granted, if you told your parents what you know, they'd probably think you've gone nuts, too. . . But we all know that Danny isn't crazy. Stressed? Yeah. Over-tired? Definitely. _Insane_? No."

"Do you think we can bust him out?" Tucker asked. "I'd go near a hospital, but only if it was for my best bud, and it is, so I would."

"Maybe," said Sam thoughtfully. "Jazz, do you know where the sanatorium is, or how to contact it?"

Jazz shook her head. "Dr. Grimm said that, if we needed to contact the sanatorium, we'd have to do it through him."

"Do you know what it's called?" Sam questioned.

"My parents said that it's called Sanatorium Mortifera."

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**Author's notes: **A pretty short chapter, though I like where this is going. I'll start working on the next chapter ASAP. I want to have the majority of this story done by late August, when I start college. I know that it may be an unrealistic expectation to have it finished, so I'll be happy if it is mostly completed. Starting August, updates will NOT stop. They will merely occur less frequently. College is serious business. :P


	5. A Strange Condition

**Disclaimer: Danny Phantom belongs to Butch Hartman. I am not Butch Hartman; therefore, I do not own Danny Phantom.**

**Author's Notes: **Sincerest thanks to all who reviewed! For the curious, "Mortifera" is Latin for "deadly things;" hence, the name of the story. Thanks to writer's block, I initially trudged through this chapter. Somehow, out of NOWHERE, I ended up with two versions of it. I will not post the other - it's too similar to this one, and too illogical and cliche to even matter. In the end, this is the better version _by far_. It's just sort of funny how things play out as you're writing them.

Oh, and if there are any Clockwork fans or Whovians reading this, I recently wrote a Danny Phantom/Doctor Who crossover one-shot titled "Progression." It is entirely about Clockwork, and if I told you how Who is involved, I'd be saying too much. In fact, I'm saying too much right now. ) Check it out!

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**Chapter Four**  
**A Strange Condition**

The hazy, murky fog cleared gradually from Danny's eyes. His lids increasingly became less weighty, and his senses were slowly regained. He was bleary from sleep, but as the minutes passed, he became more aware of his situation. He saw that the van was overcrowded with patients – most were perfectly awake, and all had their hands bound behind their backs.

Danny was no exception – he felt the rough binds of rope around his wrists, so tight that his circulation was nearly cut off. In addition, he felt an acute pain in his arm, directly over his vein. The memories of his departure were still quite vague. . . He faintly recalled something involving a _syringe_. . . Danny shivered involuntarily – he _hated_ needles.

There was no movement, no vibration, no sound of the purring engine. The van had stopped.

The double-doors at the back of the vehicle opened, allowing dim sunlight to seep into the cavernous, patient-filled space. A man's voice inquired, "Any drugged here?"

"One or two," answered the man who had opened the doors. The two men were asylum employees, in charge of gathering the patients – with a friendly front if necessary – and binding them. Sedation was reserved for special cases – the sanatorium could not afford chemicals on such a large scale. They were both dressed in sterile-looking, white uniforms, as they needed to appear proper and upright by all accounts, yet once they reached their destination, they brandished Tasers for the rebellious. Danny became instantaneously anxious upon seeing the guns, but brushed off his fear, thinking, _Maybe they're used for self-defense. They _are _dealing with crazy people._

"What about the one with the condition?"

Danny swallowed hard, shutting his eyes as tight as he could. _"The one with the condition?" _Danny thought._ Doesn't everyone here have a condition?_

"Sedated. Do you have the 'cuffs?"

"Yeah, I do. I picked them up this morning at the post building, before we left." Upon hearing the sound of something metallic, Danny's stomach took a turn for the worse.

"Good," the second employee said. "The other sedated one is coming around, so the kid should start waking up soon, too. I'll take the rest up. _You _take care of _that one_."

"Eh, easy enough. It's just a kid," said the first. His voice was now echoing inside the van's rear, and Danny could hear the man's heavy footfalls progressively coming closer. A hand pushed him downward, forcing Danny to faceplant on the floor.

"Ow! What the heck?" Danny exclaimed. The man laughed.

_Click._ A frosty, burning feeling ensnared Danny's wrists immediately, and slowly, the sensation crept up his arms, shoulders, spine. . . Soon, his entire body felt somewhat numb and his bones felt like ice, yet it felt as if there was an underlying fire raging within him as well, betwixt planes of sub-zero. It was a fire which was slowly spreading, smouldering within him, clashing with the internal winter, yet somehow working with it to achieve some goal. It felt unpleasantly _electric_. It was a feeling he had experienced before, on several occasions.

_Ghost-proof,_ Danny thought. _Where did they get these? Do they know?_

A sharp, upward tugging on his shirt forced Danny to scramble to his feet. The employee forcibly lead Danny out of the van.

"I wonder what condition he has," the other employee pondered aloud.

Danny responded with a sharp kick to the employee's shin. The hybrid attempted to dart into the dense, surrounding forest and to freedom, but he was subsequently greeted by the torturous shock of a Taser, which brought him to his knees in throbbing pain.

"Um, I have muscle spasms sometimes," Danny defended innocently between laboured breaths, slightly smug in spite of his pain.

"The handcuffs are supposed to somehow neutralize your condition until it can be analyzed," said the man who had taken him out of the van. "They were sent by your psychiatrist. Now, get up."

_I swear, that Grimm guy is out to get me,_ Danny grumbled in his mind as he struggled to get back up. _But how the heck did he know to send ghost-proof handcuffs?_

They forced Danny up the winding dirt path – created and well-beaten by the steps of countless, now-deceased patients and corrupt, even insane, employees over time – which scaled the mountainside before he could see his fellow patients being shackled.

They were as pigs lead to slaughter – practically damned to a fate shared by a myriad of others, fully unknowing of what was to come.

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**Author's Notes: **I daresay that I am entirely in love with that last sentence. :o Anyway, _review_, please! Your feedback is much appreciated!

Don't make me beg. . .

. . . Or get the Taser out.


	6. Of Therapy Sessions with Cadavers

**Disclaimer: Danny Phantom is not mine.**

**Author's Notes: **New chapter! Yay! I especially enjoyed writing the newspaper article. I came up with the name "the Amity Park Pioneer" because I wasn't entirely sure if there WAS a canon newspaper (I'm sure there was.), but since towns usually have more than one paper, I thought it was okay to make up my own. Also, note the date in the article - it's little nod to the premiere date. ;)

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**Chapter Five**  
**Of Therapy Sessions with Cadavers**

"_Dr. Alfred Grimm, Psy.D., Amity's most renowned and only psychiatrist, was found dead in the basement of his home on Friday, April 3. Upon post-mortem examination, it was concluded that the time of death occurred approximately three months ago. The remains show signs of foul play – strange burn marks are evident, and the mouth had been sealed with duct tape."_

"What? That's impossible!" Jazz exclaimed. "There's no way he could have been dead for three months!"

"That's what his secretary said. Listen," replied Sam, who had a local newspaper, the _Amity Park Pioneer_, in hand. She read aloud another excerpt from the article, "_Grimm's secretary, Ms. Edith Delaney, commented, 'Dr. Grimm has not been dead for three months. He stopped seeing clients only last week, without even so much as a notice. This is certainly a tragedy, but there is no possible way the evidence is correct.' Ms. Delaney will soon be taken in for questioning and is the lead suspect in the homicide of Alfred Grimm._"

"Uh, I don't think they'd make mistake a week-old corpse for a three-month-old corpse," Tucker mentioned.

"They wouldn't. So, either Danny's been having therapy sessions with a rotting cadaver," said Sam, "or there's something more to this. Jazz, what do your parents think of it?"

"They think Dr. Grimm was a ghost," Jazz answered. "I think, at this point, it's an entirely plausible theory. Unfortunately, Dr. Grimm – or whoever. . or _whatever_. . that was – didn't give us any contact information. He told us to contact him if we'd like to get in touch with the hospital, and only in an emergency. Apparently, the sanatorium's pretty remote."

"Pretty weird," Tucker commented. "I don't like it. We need to find this Grimm, and fast, 'cause if he's a ghost. . . Oh, man. Not good."

"We don't know that," Jazz said. "It's just a theory."

"A theory that makes a lot of sense," Sam added.

"True," Jazz agreed, "but are there any other possible explanations for this? We can't act upon an assumption; but we need to act. Whether or not we can find Dr. Grimm's ghost, we need to find Danny. I don't like the fact that we weren't given any means of contacting him."

"Neither do we," said Sam, "and _I_don't like the fact that, when I tried researching 'Sanatorium Mortifera,' the results were inconclusive. The place is pretty much off-the-map. I _did_ find enough to know something pretty disturbing about it, though. There's a_ pattern_. Every judge who sentenced insane criminals there, every psychiatrist and doctor who sent patients there, every police officer who supported the place. . . They were all eventually killed in fires. It sounds to me like arson, and it sounds like _someone_ didn't want something getting out. Fires can be passed off accidents."

"Dr. Grimm wasn't killed in a fire," Jazz pointed out. "They found burn marks on the body, but there's nothing about arson that I've heard in the papers or on the news. It sounded like a pretty deliberate murder. It doesn't add up."

"Right," Sam concurred. "This murder was different than the others, but why?"

"Maybe someone got to Grimm before the asylum did?" Jazz suggested.

"Maybe, but we can't assume anything. The point of all this is that there's something weird going on here, and now, Danny's involved."

"We need to do _something_," prompted Tucker, "but what?"

"It would probably be really hard to find Dr. Grimm at this point," Sam said. "He could be here, or he could be in the Ghost Zone. Either way, it's not going to be easy finding him. We'd have a better chance of finding Danny.

"I have an idea." Tucker's eyes lit up as he said this, illuminated by a spark of ingenuity. "Do you have that boomerang-thing your parents invented?"

"You mean the _Boooo-merang_? It's down in the lab. Why?"

"If I can get a little of Danny's DNA, I can probably tune it into his ectoplasmic signature. I'm no scientist, but I _am_ a tech nerd, and we're talking technology here!"

"Tucker," Sam began, "I really, really, _really _can't believe I'm saying this – and I thought I never would, _ever_ – but. . . that's genius!"

"I'm glad you're finally recognizing it!" Tucker beamed.

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it," Sam countered, glowering at him forbodingly for only a moment.

Something told Sam that she'd be hearing about this for a very, _very_ long time.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **There we go - a little relief from the heaviness of the overall story! I know that the Booo-merang was tuned into Danny's ecto-signature during "The Ultimate Enemy," which is the episode after "The Fenton Menace." Since the story takes place after "The Fenton Menace," I thought that the timing was appropriate for this, and that the solution was appropriate as well.

Anyhow, REVIEW, PLEASE! -dances in front of a hat; the hat has a card propped up in front of it, and the card has the word "REVIEWS" written on it in capital letters- Ta-da! :D


	7. Iron and Ice

**Disclaimer: **Asylum is mine. Story is mine. Danny Phantom is not mine.

**Author's Notes:** I'm sorry for the update lag. I trudged through this chapter, as I am easily distracted, and I have written a few other stories in the meantime. Music helps me to stay on course. Especially asylum-related music. So do thank Emilie Autumn for the much-needed story fuel. ("Miss Lucy Had Some Leeches" is a notable one.) Also, thank J.S. Bach, because he DID compose a largo I had on "repeat" as I was writing this. Depressing music aids in writing depressing stories, no? Yes. To compensate for slow writing and updating, this chapter is one of the longest. In fact, in spite of its lengthy composition time, this is one of my favourite chapters. _And thank you to the reviewers, as always._

* * *

**Chapter Six**  
**Iron and Ice**

The asylum boasted a large, rotting iron gate, through which all who entered the grounds had to pass. The gate, however rusted, still stood erect upon feeble hinges, and remained an ominous, wickedly-spiked guardian which loomed over any who dared to cross its threshold. Danny swallowed hard as he was forced past them, and he wondered if the gate was meant to keep people out, or the inhabitants of the building in. Both, maybe.

The sanatorium itself was an old, sprawling structure which appeared as if it was going to crumble into nothing more than a massive pile of rubble any moment. Layers of ivy crawled about upon its surface, twining through the deteriorating mortar between the weather-worn bricks – they were as threads sewn into the construction, creating stability, keeping the asylum standing. Anyone who happened on it would most likely assume it was abandoned, for there was a conspicuous silence – not even the birds sang. Of course, anyone who happened upon the hospital would soon learn of its ghastly reality, either when they were being admitted into it as a patient, or as that person was being dispatched.

Danny hadn't realized that he was shaking until an especially violent tremor – nearly electrical in nature – vibrated through his spine. There was something extremely menacing about the building before him. It was an odd feeling, given that fear was not an emotion Danny felt much anymore, and that the building in front of him seemed entirely innocuous. It_ was_ just a building, however dilapidated and worthy of condemnation. Other than the idea that the whole place could cave in, what did he have to worry about?

What _didn't _he have to worry about? There was absolutely nothing normal about the way he was treated – the Tasers, the restraints, the way he was forced up the scant, winding dirt path up the mountain, the fact that the grounds of the asylum weren't maintained. . . Even though Danny knew nothing of the practices of mental hospitals, none of it seemed _right_. The ghost-proof handcuffs around his wrists were the most suspicious – they were too bizarre an item to be overlooked.

_Something's going on here, _Danny thought_. Something bad. Nothing about this place makes any sense. It's like someone knows I'm half-ghost and wants to keep me here. I need to get out of here. I _need_to. Even if I do get out of the handcuffs, if they see I've disappeared, my parents might find out about it. . . Augh. Last resort. It has to be a last resort. I just hope I actually can escape if the time comes._

Danny gazed up at the decaying doors before him. The entrance was covered with peeling white paint, revealing rust underneath. One door was missing its door-handle, and the other door's handle seemed as if it was going to fall off at any moment. An employee grabbed the remaining handle and gave it a forceful tug, causing the door to unwillingly swing from its closed position with a loud creak, and also allowing a horrid smell to leak from the asylum's interior. The stench reeked of the filth and sourness of human flesh, of murk, of dirt, of age, of grime, and it seeped into Danny's airways, causing him to practically choke on it. He barely noticed that the taste of winter tinged his lips.

Then, suddenly, Danny was shoved into the building's interior. It was dingy and dilapidated – as the outside was –, but it showed no signs of falling to pieces immediately. A blindfold was secured around his head, successfully obstructing his vision.

Placing a hand on one's shoulder is considered an act of sympathy and comfort, yet when Danny felt hands upon his shoulders, he did not feel sympathized with or comforted. These hands were not upon him for consolation – they were strong, tactless hands, guiding him to a place of death and anguish.

The first of many screams was saturated with agony, despair, and almost certainly madness. Danny cringed as it ripped through the air – it was bloodcurdling, as well as entirely unexpected. The further he was led into the hospital, the more frequent the shrieks and moans – some muffled, some shrill – became.

In addition, he was_ freezing _in spite of the mild warmth of April. Icy air filled and rushed from his lungs repetitively, which was odd – maybe the handcuffs didn't entirely neutralize his powers. Scientific inquiry aside, one fact remained: there were ghosts here, and plenty of them. It made sense, in a way – asylums were traumatic places, and this one in particular seemed especially disturbing. One's mind could entirely be lost, and maybe – somehow – it would be difficult discern death from life. Maybe some held grudges; after all, this seemed more of a prison than a hospital. In fact, Danny was fairly sure he had been treated better in Walker's prison. At least, in Walker's prison, they didn't inject sedatives into your bloodstream; however, here, they did not remind you of possible execution. . . three times.

After climbing about six flights of stairs – which had started as metal and turned to wood as they ascended, some of which dangerously creaked in protest –, Danny was forced to stop, and his blindfold was removed. He looked about him – there was the staircase behind him, and a door in front of him.

A worker he had not seen before unceremoniously opened the door and did something surprising before he practically threw the ghost boy inside. He removed the handcuffs. For a moment, Danny felt a surge of relief. That ease quickly faded when the worker exchanged a restraint for a restraint, as Danny was soon efficiently bound in a straitjacket. For the worker, it was a skill which had improved with time and continuous practice.

He shut Danny inside, and the metal door shut with a thunderous bang, leaving him in a darkness laden with the damp scent of mildew. Frail light seeped in through a crack in the ceiling – which could only be the roof – and dimly illuminated the cell, which appeared more like an attic which had fallen into disrepair.

That night, Danny could not sleep. It wasn't due to the filth of the room, or the fact that he laid upon rotting boards, saturated with years of rain water damage. The shadows were moving. His frigid breath was condensing. Danny wasn't afraid, but he was incredibly uncomfortable.

He was being watched.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** The plot thickens. I'll work on the next chapter as soon as I can, but be on the lookout for new stories from me. Know that I will never abandon this, but I have a new series in mind. Switching on and off series may shake things up a bit for me, leading to more productivity and less distraction and boredom. The new series may either be an actual story or it may be an ongoing serial. It will be AU, delving into a subject I am quite interested in. I cannot give you the title (and I DO have a title in mind). It'll give too much away. :)

As always, please take the time to _review_. This is one of the longest chapters yet, and I'm really hoping for some feedback! All feedback - positive and negative - is greatly appreciated.


	8. Through the Asylum

**Disclaimer: I don't own Danny Phantom.**

**Author's Notes:** I know that this took forever, but good news: the version I scrapped will be another chapter. I just thought that what I had written was occuring too early. I expect the next chapter will be very short, but things in the asylum will be moving rather quickly.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**  
**Through the Asylum**

Danny awoke from a restless sleep. The minute crack in the ceiling allowed only a bit of the morning light to shine through, but he was grateful for it. A little daylight in such a gloomy place was slightly uplifting, as if to show that there was hope.

"What are you?" a voice asked. The voice came from the shadows, from the darkest corners of the room. The darkness moved. It watched him from all angles, observing him, scrutinizing him, as if he was an amoeba beneath the watchful eye of a microscope.

"Who are you?" Danny asked, his eyes wide open. He looked about the room as best as he could, but he saw no one. He attempted to get to his feet, or to at least sit up straight – a task which proved more difficult than anticipated, due to the decrepit straitjacket. "I know you're a ghost. I can feel you, I can hear you, and I can see you."

There was no answer from the entity.

The door opened, and from it, a white-clad figure emerged. "They should like to see you now."

Blindfolded once again, Danny was lead down many flights of stairs, led by a leather strap about his neck, and by the madman at the tugging end of it. Danny had to keep with the worker's brisk pace; any slower, and he would have had at least a decent welt on his neck. Around him, the boy heard echoing screams, made hollow by the building's interior. Some shrieks were suddenly silenced – presumably prematurely. Eventually, the sounds faded into nothingness.

They came to a stop.

"Is this the one with the strange condition?" a voice asked.

Danny didn't need his sight to figure out that the employee nodded.

"It's a pathetic thing," the voice commented. Danny fought the urge to protest. _Pathetic? _"I've seen skeletons with more substance. You're dismissed, Fletcher. I can take it from here."

_"I'm not pathetic,"_ Danny muttered as the employee, Fletcher, handed the doctor the strap.

"What was that?" the doctor prompted.

"I am _not_ pathetic," Danny said defiantly, speaking up. Immediately, the doctor struck him across the face. The strap about Danny's neck was tightened. Danny struggled in his decaying straitjacket, adrenaline coursing through is veins. This man, this doctor, was a fool to pick a fight with _him_.

"We'll see," the doctor said calmly, as if nothing had happened.

"Yeah," Danny growled, "you will."

"Speak any more," said the doctor, "and I shall see that your vocal chords are promptly removed."

Danny scowled. Behind the filthy cloth, his eyes were burning with ire. He studied the man tugging the strap – in spite of the doctor's criticism, he himself was as gangly as he was ugly. Danny noted a glimpse of the doctor's mouth, which was filled with crooked, rotten teeth, bunched together like weathered tombstones in an overcrowded graveyard. . .

Danny was blindfolded. He stopped in his tracks, confused. He couldn't see a moment ago, and now. . . Now, the blindfold was at his feet, knot intact. Somehow, it had been burnt in half; tiny, green embers were still flickering on the cloth's singed edges, lightly smoking as they perished. The strap constricted around Danny's neck even tighter, alerting him to keep moving, but he did not move at all.

"What. . . ? What did you do?" the doctor demanded.

Danny, now seeing his orders to remain silent as an opportunity to be uncooperative, answered with a shrug.

"_Answer me!_ You think it's _funny_. . . You think you can _pull one over_ on me. . . But you shan't. . . Oh, you. . . You pathetic, filthy, disease-ridden _rat_. . . You think you can play your little games. . . Your funny, bloody little games. . . Look at you, smirking. . . smiling. . . _laughing_! I won't have it! I won't! You must _learn your place_, and you shall, in time, one way or another. . . _Yes_. . . One way or another."

Danny was not smirking, in spite of his cheeky, insolent attitude. He was not smiling, nor was he laughing. "I didn't do anything," he defended. "I don't know what happened."

"Did I not tell you to be silent?"

Danny nodded, eyes wide. One moment, this doctor was threatening him, telling him to be silent, and the next, he was being told to answer. The doctor of mental illness was insane himself.

"Excuse me, doctor," said a man. Judged entirely upon looks, it seemed that he was a doctor as well. He possessed a deep, commanding voice, saturated with self-importance and – at the moment – distain and irritation. "Is this the patient you were supposed to bring to me earlier? I grow impatient."

"I-it is, sir. . . Mind you, it's a handful."

"I believe that I can manage," the other doctor said, scrutinizing his co-worker. "This is the third time you have been late this week. Are you well? Have you contracted a _disease_?" His eyes flashed with something which may have been suspicion. . . or_ hunger_.

"No, sir," the first answered. "I was hardly late."

"But you were not early enough. You were not on time. Each second counts, and I have no virtue of _patience_. Meet me in my office before the day's end," dictated the superior coldly, "and I'll have a look at your condition. But _do not_ bother me while I am working. I am a busy man."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll take this one now, if you do or don't mind," the Head Surgeon said as he grabbed the strap which fastened around Danny's choking collar. Venom seeped into his words. "You're _dismissed_."

Danny was led into the bowels of the hospital, past hallways and down staircases. Now that he could see, he realized that the blindfolds were either an act of mercy or an attempt by the staff to avoid resistance. Doors lined the walls – doors with windows. Some windows were cracked, some were boarded, and some were partially cracked. All the rooms were overcrowded, filled with emaciated-looking people in restraints. Some bore scratches, gashes, bite marks. . . They bled from their open, infected wounds, bled from self-infliction and in-fighting, bled from unbandaged areas of operation. Even the amputees had no bandages. The patients were clad in shoddy, scant clothing – whatever remained of what they had arrived in – or none at all. Danny saw that, in a few corners, there were small piles of the uncollected dead.

Finally, he was pulled into a small, dark, thankfully-empty room. In that despairing room, lit by only a single lightbulb, there were rusted chains and shackles hanging from the grimy walls. The floor was cement, painted with a brownish stain which was concentrated at the very center of the room, where a drain was located. Above the drain was a table – a ramshakle, aged version of the very metal table Danny had seen in his parents' laboratory, the table he laid upon in most of his nightmares.

It was an operating table, complete with straps intended for the neck, wrists, waist, and ankles. Furthermore, on a tray next to the operating table, there was a tarnished scalpel, among other arcane-looking tools.

_A bright, concentrated light above him. . . Cold metal beneath. . . Restraints. . . A shining, silvery scalpel. . . The scalpel, covered with his fluids. . . Ectoplasm. . . Blood. . . Smiles behind surgical masks. . ._

_. . . He was scientific and the paranormal discovery of the century. . ._

Flashes of his recurring nightmare passed before his mind's eye. Delirious and frightened, Danny hardly heard himself scream, or the crash of glass jars shattering, or the clanging of tools, or the rattling of the chains. . . He saw, barely, eyeballs strewn about the floor and the hollow sockets of butchered skulls observing him. Air rushed from his lungs, causing them to painfully shrivel in his chest as he exhaled. He felt himself stumble backward, and nothing could touch him. He was air. . .

. . . And then he was material. He heaved his breaths as he frantically stumbled away from the disoriented, wrathful, and curious Head Surgeon.

Danny could have sworn that he heard faint laughter amidst the screams of the patients.

Perhaps he was going mad, after all.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I do so _love_ my horror. What did you think of this chapter, my little leeches? Opinions are greatly appreciated.


	9. Damn Complexes

**Disclaimer: Danny Phantom. I do not own it.**

**Author's Notes:** Yay, quick update! Forgive how short this chapter is. . . The next will be better. I promise. And, my dearest leeches, I have many things in store for you. Many things indeed. :3

Oh. And forgive the language in this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**  
**Damn Complexes**

"Tucker, is it ready _yet_?" Sam asked, very nearly complaining. She had been edgy since Danny left – stressful butterflies lodged themselves and multiplied in her stomach, anxiety tainted every move, and she could not concentrate on much else than getting him back. She ate little and slept less. _Why did he go? He didn't have to. He could have put a stop to all of it, and he went,_ she thought bitterly. _I swear, sometimes, I think Danny would go through the fire and brimstone of Hell itself before he told his parents his secret._

"I have to work out some bugs," Tucker answered. "Finding the DNA took a while, you know, and I guess that there's more from where that came from, 'cause this thing keeps flying up into his room. It can be fixed, so don't freak out, okay? I'm doing the best I can."

"Just. . Hurry up," she answered. "Danny could be in real trouble right now. It would be useless to get there when it's. . when it's. . . well. . ."

"Too late?" Jazz finished. She had to keep herself calm. If she didn't, then she could end up a wreck, just like Sam. A nervous breakdown wasn't conducive to saving her brother, though it was very difficult to fend off the stress.

"Mmhmm," Sam agreed, deadpan. Her mind was elsewhere. _Why? Why, why, why? I know he told us that he thought he was starting to see ghosts that weren't there, but knows that he isn't _insane. _Does he have some kind of damn martyr complex? Why would he let himself be admitted into an asylum? An _asylum_! For all we know, he could be fucking _dead _right now, and all because he pretty much walked into a trap._

"I'm hurrying as fast as I can," Tucker said as he toyed with the device.

"It's been _days_ since you first started working on it, Tucker," Sam hissed. "I'm sorry if I'm not the _epitome of patience_ right now! Danny could be dead, or close to it."

"Sam, don't say that," Tucker said. "We all wanna see him safe, just as much as you do."

"I know," Sam answered, swallowing hard. "I shouldn't say any of this. Danny can take care of himself."

"There's the spirit," Tucker said. "Just think positive."

"I don't usually 'think positive.'"

"Try to," Jazz offered.

"It's hard when your. . . your _best friend_ might be dead."

"He's my _brother_," said Jazz, eyes welling with tears. "Imagine how it feels to think your _little brother_ might be dead. It's terrible. At least_ try_ to stay positive. I know it's hard, but try. It's better than breaking down."

"Sorry," Sam choked. "I. . . It. . . I'm just so. ."

". . . You like him," Tucker finished. "Everyone knows you do."

"_Now isn't the time for that!_"

"It could be. You just have to tell him. That's all. When we're out of this mess. . ."

"_If,_" Sam corrected.

". . . _When_ we're out of this mess, you need to tell him how you feel."

"I feel the same way about him as you do, Tucker."

"Hold on. Did. . Did you just call me _gay_?"

"What? No! I meant that he's my best friend, just like he's your best friend, too."

"No offense, Sam," Tucker said, "but that's bullshit. I think you're pretty much in love with him. Everyone else thinks so, too."

"It's true," Jazz said. "It's pretty obvious. If it helps, he seems to like you back."

". . . _Really_?" Sam asked. "_Seriously?_ He really does?"

"Really and seriously," Jazz said.

". . . Why are we suddenly talking about this?" Sam asked.

"Because you've been a bitch lately," Tucker answered cheekily.

"Oh. Um. . You can chalk that up to sleep deprivation."

"You're worried," Tucker stated, grinning a bit. "Just promise that you'll tell him."

Sam contemplated it. She really did like Danny, perhaps a little more than friends. . . If a near-death situation like this happened again – and with as many enemies as Danny's, it was liable to – she would rather have him know how she felt. If all went well, maybe whatever time they _did_ have together would be well-spent. The life of a hero was certainly dangerous. After all, it only took a single fight to finish the ghost boy off for good.

Mentally, she cursed Danny's hero complex, in addition to the possible martyr complex she had thought about earlier.

"I promise."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Yay! Next chapter, we go back to Danny. I love writing the asylum stuff the best. I really do.


	10. Shadow and Rot

**Disclaimer: Danny Phantom is not mine.**

**Author's Notes: **Oh, hey. A new chapter. Whoah.

Updates will not be as frequent as they used to be, and for that, I am very sorry. I've just started college.

Also, thank you to my reviewers and followers. :3 I give you props for sticking with me thus far.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**  
**Shadow and Rot**

It had been several days, according to the crack in the roof.

Danny had stopped counting the days themselves, but knew that some had passed, for the sunlight had waxed and waned many times. He was certain that the doctors were frightened of him, and that they were either leaving him to die, or were debating what to do with him. He had been completely neglected, with nothing to eat and only the filthy rainwater which had collected into small, stagnant puddles on the floor to drink.

_I could get out of here any time I wanted to,_ Danny thought bitterly, _but my parents might find out, and what then?_ He began to consider that, maybe, they had purposely exiled him to the asylum, fully knowing that he was to relinquish any remaining life within him there. For what, insanity? Maybe they knew what he was; they were ghost-hunters, after all. Placing the scientific anomaly that was your son into a murderous mental institution was more merciful than killing him yourself.

_Maybe, when they're done with me here, my parents will come to pick up their new specimen._

With each passing moment, the shadows in the room became more and more restless. They swirled and crept and lurked, they became solid, they formed sihouettes, and the shapes evaporated. Even the darkness behind Danny's closed eyes moved, and it seeped, like ink across paper, into his mind, flooding his dreams with dancing blackness. Both physically and mentally, he saw fleeting glimpses of the ghosts in the shadows. They were horrible figures – as vague forms, they seemed to be stretched much too thin, yet when they materialized momentarily, they gained repugnant substance. Some bore gashes, deep and ever-bleeding. The deep incisions some had were, to Danny's horror, the obvious products of nothing other than a scalpel, and those who brandished them also brandished their exposed innards. Others were missing limbs, even heads, or parts of limbs, whilst others were contorted into odd shapes. Some were burnt until they were nothing more than ash and bone, and the pungent, flesh-and-fire scent of a crematorium which _they_allowed to linger was truly awful. However, there were far worse odors, such as that of slowly decomposing human meat, which was an all-too-common scent in the attic room. Most of the spirits were physically decaying; Danny was sure he had seen one loose a finger once, but the figure was so faint that he couldn't be sure.

"What are you?" a voice Danny had sworn he had heard before inquired. The voice was soft and rough, rustling like the dead, shriveled leaves of late autumn.

"He's one of us," another voice whispered.

"No, he isn't," yet another argued, "for his heart still beats. He still breathes."

"He breathes _ice!_ He is not one of us, and not one of them. He is a strange thing," a fourth voice condemned.

"He can't hear us," a fifth said somberly. "They usually never do."

"And when they do," a sixth giggled. "They go _mad!_"

"I. . . I'm hearing _voices_," an alarmed Danny realized aloud. His voice was barely audible – it was dry and cracked, the product of continuous silence and little hydration.

"Oh, he _can _hear us!" the sixth chimed. "How long before you lose your marbles?"

Danny thought about it for a bit, and answered hoarsely, "Maybe I've already lost them."

"What are you?" the first voice repeated.

"I'm not sure anymore," Danny answered as best he could, truthful for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. "The last time I checked, I was half-ghost."

"I told you!" exclaimed the second and third voices in unison.

"And I told _you_," said the fourth, "that he's neither one of us, nor one of them, and that he is a strange thing. I am right. He's neither here nor there. He is in the _middle_."

"Will you help us?" the fifth asked.

"Help you? Who are you?" Danny asked. "Let me see you."

"We are numerous," many voices said at once.

"Let me see you," he croaked.

"We hide," said the voices. "We are nightmares."

"Nightmares?" Danny asked.

"People see us, people hear us, and they go _insane_," the sixth voice said, putting much emphasis on "insane." Her constant, giggling laughter was filled with a madness of her own.

"I'm different," Danny said.

"Obviously!" the fourth voice scoffed.

"Do you see us?" the first voice asked.

"I see. . I see no one," Danny answered.

"_We are No One_," the voices said, once more speaking as one entity.

"We are the shadows!" said the third.

"We are the burned!" said the second.

"We are the hidden!" said the fourth.

"We are the eaten!" said the fifth.

"Did you try us yet?" a seventh voice, a new voice, asked.

"Um, no. . . I don't think so," Danny responded. Ghosts didn't frighten him – if they did, he'd have trouble looking in a mirror –, but the insanity with which the ghosts were talking was creeping him out. Then again, if had he not been entirely mad before, he very well may have been by that point.

"Help us or join us," the fifth said.

"If you don't, you will die," said Three.

"I might be already," Danny pointed out. Whatever voice he had was diminishing – his vocal chords felt arid, like bone left to bleach in the Sun.

"Then you are useless, with no power, and must become shadow and rot," said Four. As he spoke, Six was faintly singing a playful childish melody, most likely to herself.

"_Shadow and rot, shadow and rot. . ._"

The sixth voice's song diminished into utter silence.

In the corner, the black began to solidify, taking the shape of a human. Features emerged, and details revealed themselves. The form of a man sat in the darkest recesses of the room, watching Danny intently.

The man had only half a face.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Please review, as always, and I have something special for you fine people.

Would you like to be in "Deadly Things?" Who _wouldn't _want to be a tortured mental patient, or the ghost of one? Only a lunatic! :D

You must guess the answer to this question. The first three people who answer it correctly will (eventually) receive cameos in this story. I'll post up the winners with the next update, and I'll message those who have won, asking for descriptions. So, make sure that PMs are enabled.

**Question:** _I am currently reading a book from the 1960's about the descent into madness. What is the title of the book, and who is the author?_

**Third to answer correctly: **A cameo as a patient.  
**Second to answer correctly: **A cameo as a ghost.  
**First to answer correctly:** You will be one of the voices in this chapter. I will ask you to specify on which you would like to be.

Good luck!


	11. Decisions

**Author's Notes: Oh, hey. An update. Sorry this took so long.**

**Also, the winners of the contest. The answer was "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath.**

**MISCeLeniiOUS - First place, now voice Six. (Your physical appearance will show up soon. Not this chapter, but soon. Swear.)**

**JackieDanielStark - Second place, now an upcoming ghost.**

**NikaStarlight - Third place, now an upcoming mental patient.**

* * *

**Chapter Ten**  
**Decisions**

The visible owner of the first voice, the Man with Half a Face, was upon Danny within the blink of an eye. He firmly placed his putrified hand over Danny's mouth, and Danny nearly gagged. "Don't scream," the ghost said. "Scream, and they might come."

"Or perhaps they won't," said the seventh voice. "After what he did to the surgeon's room, I'd wager that they're scared of him."

"Either way," said Four, "they're wondering what to do with this particular _inmate_. No doubt about_ that_."

"Oh, his face! The surgeon's face!" Six squealed. "Did you see his face when everything came tumbling down? Did you?" She burst into a fit of giggles.

"It was splendid," said the fifth voice, "but the boy obviously overreacted. There are far worse things than physicals." Danny attempted to say something, but the man's hand muffled it into an unintelligble slur of sounds that may have been something like a question of one word. _Physicals?_

"We don't have time to talk about this," the man said to the darkness. "If you have them, keep your mouths_ shut_. We have business to discuss." He looked down at Danny. "Do you promise not to scream?"

Danny nodded. In his mouth was the lingering taste of ectoplasm and carnal decay. It was far from pleasant, but he was in no position to complain. "What's going on here?"

"A lot," said the Man with Half a Face, almost bitterly. "The head surgeon is cleaning up what is left of his laboratory. The people who aren't starving don't know what they're eating. At least one death is occuring, right now, as we speak; therefore, at least one more ghost is listening to us. And you and I are conversing civily about entirely uncivil things, in an entirely uncivil place. _That_ is what's going on here."

"I. . . I don't understand," Danny said, bluntly. "I don't understand _any_ of this. Like, at all."

"Why are you here?"

"My parents think I'm nuts and hurting myself," Danny said, rolling his eyes. "Some quack sent me here. And I let it happen, 'cause I thought I'd be out in, like, two, maybe three, months max."

The ghost snorted, somewhat amused. "In two or three months," he said, "you'll be dead."

"More dead," Six added, her smile somehow apparent in her voice.

"_Shush_," the man hissed to her. He turned to Danny. "That is, if you don't help us."

"Uh, yeah, I heard the 'help us or join us' thing the first ten times you guys said it," Danny said. "What do you want help with?"

"Revenge." The man paused. "The ghosts here are numberless, and every one is depending on you for their release, whether they know it or not."

"Can't you guys just go into the Ghost Zone?" Danny asked. "Isn't that where you came from?"

The man arched what was left of his one eyebrow. "Did _you _come from the Ghost Zone?"

"Well, uh, no, I guess," Danny said.

"Everything in _there_ is from somewhere else," explained the first ghost, "with some exceptions. It's a place of dead things and forgotten things, manifestations and creatures made of pure energy – things that were once human and things that were never human at all. Dead myths and dead eras. . . Monsters. . . Nothing _comes from_ it. It all _goes there_."

"Okay, but why don't you just go there?"

"Obsession, maybe," said the man.

"We can't leave," the third voice moaned.

"We have a purpose," the man continued. "We watch over this place, and wait for an opportunity to end it. You, I believe, are our opportunity. You can hear us, see us, feel us, even _smell _us, because, really, you're one of us. And the patients – they can see you, hear you, feel you. . . They know you're real, because you're one of them."

"What do you want me to do?" Danny asked.

"Kill," said Five, simply.

"What? No! That's totally nuts!"

"I'll beg your pardon!" Four said.

"We want you to end Sanatorium Mortifera," the Half-Faced Man said, "by any means possible."

"I. . . I don't know," Danny said. It wasn't really a question of whether or not he _would _do it; he had to, or he would die. He needed to think about _how_ he was going to do it, which he couldn't do at that moment. He was weak, fatigued, and fairly sure that, if he wasn't half-ghost, he would have died from starvation by then. He curled up on the floor, apathetic toward its filth. "I need to sleep on it."

"You don't have very long," the Man said. "We need your decision as soon as possible."

"Mmhmm," Danny agreed absently. He shut his eyes, hoping that, when he opened them again, he would be home. All of this would be a nightmare. There wouldn't really be an asylum or rotting ghosts. He'd get dressed and go to school and be as normal as he could possibly be. . .

Then the door opened and ripped him from his normal life.

"My, my, Daniel," said an impossible, familiar voice – one that Danny partially hated and partially welcomed –, "you look terrible."

Danny made an unintelligible noise, neither moving nor opening his eyes. Footsteps fell toward him, getting progressively louder as they neared.

"I wouldn't go near that thing if I were you. _It isn't human_," a doctor warned.

"Oh, shut up," the familiar voice said. "I know perfectly well what I'm doing."

An expensive Italian leather shoe nudged the boy, as if he were an animal found on the side of the road – possibly alive, but most likely dead. The owner of the shoe made a disappointed, _tsk tsk_ sound, and mumbled something like, "Perfect timing."

Danny opened one of his eyes. "Vlad?" he asked, not quite sure if he was lucidly dreaming or hallucinating, or if this was real. Danny then opened both of his eyes, squinted at the older halfa, and frowned. "You're not actually here."

"And why would that be?" Vlad asked.

"Haven't you heard?" Danny asked, a bit of sarcasm leaking into his voice. "I'm nuts now. You're a hallucination."

"I assure you, Daniel, that I'm really here."

"Oh yeah? How'd you find me?" Danny asked.

"Money has a way of getting information out of _anyone_."

"Pfft. What'd you do? Bribe Grimm?"

"That's exactly what I did," Vlad said. "I'm here to help you, my boy."

"Well, that's _really _convienient," Danny said, rolling his eyes. "Just peachy-perfect. Where the hell were you when I was being sent to this hell-hole to begin with?"

"Attending to business, I'm afraid," Vlad said, smiling in a way Danny guessed was supposed to be congenial. "That's beside the point. What would you say if I were to take you out of here, right now? I have a room set up for you, and we can send for your things. . ."

"You can do that?"

"What _can't_ I do?"

Danny was about to say, "Modesty is one," but was cut off by the doctor in the doorway.

"Uh, sir? You're going to need to speak to the Head Surgeon, as he would very much like to study this mentally unstable specimen. . ."

"Of course," Vlad said. He turned back to Danny and said, "Think about it, Daniel. Rotting in here, or becoming the son of a billionaire. It's not a difficult decision."

With that, Danny was, once again, left alone with his possibly insane thoughts – and the possibly insane ghosts.


	12. Offers

**Finally, after a very long hiatus and some very serious writer's block, I am updating this story. It's good to be back. Enjoy!**

* * *

When any living thing is confronted with a situation which may endanger its life, it usually has two options. The first option is to run away as quickly as possible. As it runs, its heart beats frantically in its chest, its blood pulses with adrenaline, desperation, and fear, and its mind is set on one thing: safety. In its mad dash, the thing has no time to look back; it can only look forward, for it is fixated upon survival – and, perhaps, it is frightened of what it would see, were it to look back.

The second option is to confront the threat by any means necessary; usually, the means are violent, bloody affairs, in which, at the end, something dies. Through death, the survival of another is guaranteed. One's salvation at another's expense. The predator lives from feeding upon the prey, or the prey survives another day by destroying the predator.

This is what occurs in nature. The instincts to fight or flee are hardwired into every living thing, to ensure that they continue living. However, some living things choose not to fight for their own survival, but to fight in an attempt to see that others are saved in their stead. Though they be weak or weary, they choose the salvation of others over their own salvation. And, usually, that struggle is their last. This is sacrifice, and sacrifice goes against the instincts meant for self-preservation. Sacrifice is the option of martyrs and heroes and fools; it is, in essence, a utilitarian concept, for the demise of one leads to the well-being of many, and is a contribution toward a higher purpose and a noble cause.

Fight or flight: instincts, but choices. They are_ always _choices, with the choice generally being influenced by the living thing's character.

Or, in this case, the half-living thing's character. He was not exempt from possessing an instinctual drive to live, but he had a decision to make. He could run to the safest option: a luxurious life, free of starvation or insanity or anyone who wanted to cut him open. He could always escape, pretending to accept Vlad's offer until the opportunity to run away presented itself. Or maybe he wouldn't run away at all; the possibility that his parents knew everything about him and dumped him at a mental hospital for disposal was fresh in his mind. But the ghosts were counting on him, weren't they? Other people would be brought to the sanatorium to die in the worst ways he could and couldn't imagine.

Danny's decision was based not who he was at the moment. At the moment, he was weak, starving, bound, and could possibly die at any moment from any number of things. The person who he was at the moment would pounce upon even the slightest inkling of escape, and would accept Vlad's offer, enthusiastically, running from the asylum and all it contained. Instead, his decision was based upon who he _wanted_ to be; he wanted to be the hero, the one to save everyone else for the reason that it was_ right_to do so, the idiot who would sacrifice himself in some struggle as he – gloriously high from the insane satisfaction – watched others flee to safety.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

* * *

The least decayed room in the entire sanatorium was on the very first floor of Mortifera, through a door on the western wall of the lobby. Cluttered, dusty shelves obscured the walls, and those cluttered and dusty shelves were lined with archaic books about disease and anatomy and the mind; they were also lined with various grisly things, some of which were contained in jars. In this room was a rather large desk, and at the desk sat a very severe-looking man; the room belonged to this man, and the man seemed to belong to the room as well. He was waiting, as patiently as he could, for his visitor to arrive, so they might discuss the matter at hand. It was very important. One could tell by his posture, as he sat in the desk's chair, that it was very important, and that he was not pleased about it at all.

The door opened, and the visitor stepped in, but the man did not greet him. Instead, he asked, "What do you want with it?"

The visitor approached, donning a very sly smile as he asked, feigning naivety, "Whatever could you mean?"

"You know what I'm talking about. The thing you came here to see," said the Surgeon. "Now, don't waste my time, as I am a very busy man. What do you want with the thing you've given us?"

"Why, just to see if the lad's recovered enough to go home. I'm a family friend, you know," said Vlad, "practically an uncle to him." He paused, grinning a bit wider. "I _care_ about him, you see. I care about him enough to send him to this _fine institution_, so he could get the help he needs. I see he's gotten quite a lot of help."

"So, you strike a deal with me, telling me you have an interesting specimen for me to study, and then decide that you can take it back before I do anything with it? Because you're its 'uncle?'" The Surgeon laughed. "What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"One who is obviously very slow when it comes to studying specimens. I've given you ample time, and your specimen is dying. . ."

"It's already dead!" the Surgeon interjected.

"Oh, so sure? You haven't even conducted a proper study, and you've already made your conclusion."

"I was told – by the reputable source that is you – that it's a ghost. I have every reason to believe it's dead."

"Is it really? I never told you what kind of ghost it is, if it can be categorized as a ghost. . ."

"A dangerous one. It destroyed my facilities in a matter of _seconds._"

"Then do you really want the specimen so badly?"

"I'll never get another," said the Surgeon, sighing. "This one must be held onto, even if it is mentally damaged. The satisfaction I'll get when I rip it open and examine it will be more than worth the price of achieving that moment."

"Oh, I would reconsider that," said Vlad.

"There will be no reconsideration."

"Is that so?" asked Vlad. In the dim light of the room, his eyes seemed to shine a fiery red. "I must warn you: I can be _very_persuasive."

"Then persuade me," said the surgeon. Behind his smudgy spectacles, his eyes squinted in contempt. "I dare you to _try_."

* * *

"Come, Daniel. We're leaving."

Danny looked up to see the silhouette of Vlad in the doorway, darkened by the shadows which inhabited the room. There was something impatient about him; his voice seemed a rushed, despite how resolute it sounded, and his figure seemed ready to flee from the doorway at a moment's notice. The boy simply sat there, and shook his head. "No," he muttered.

"What did you say?"

"No," said Danny again, louder. He meant to sound firm, and he supposed that he did, even if his voice had cracked as he spoke. "I said, 'No.' I'm not leaving."

"What? _'No?'_" Vlad asked, anger seeping into his voice. "You'll _die_if you stay. Do you realize that, Daniel?"

"Yeah. I do." In the darkness, Danny smiled, his face lit by the spark of something he'd thought he'd lost upon coming to the asylum. It was a piece of his old self, his sane self, a tiny piece of the same heroic bravado he'd taken on time and time again. "Now get outta here, Froot Loop."

"Y-you ungrateful little _brat. . . _!"

"And don't forget to buy yourself a cat."

"After all I've done for you!"

"Maybe you should make that _two _cats," Danny said, with the same smug grin on his face. He could've sworn he heard the sounds of people ascending the stairs to his attic room, and he was certain of it the moment he saw Vlad look behind him, to the stairway.

"You'll regret this, little badger," said Vlad, "_I assure you_."

And, with that, Vlad simply disappeared, leaving Danny alone once again. For a moment, as Danny curled up on the floor and shut his eyes, he wondered if the exchange had even occurred.

But the sound of feet quickly pounding up the rickety stairs grew louder and louder, growing closer and closer to Danny, until they were right next to him.

Something hit him, then, and the darkness behind his eyes was interrupted by a flash of lightning before it deepened into the swallowing blackness of unconsciousness.

* * *

_**That was it?**_

**Yes, readers, that was it. That's what you've been waiting nearly a year for. But there will, of course, be more to come. I promise I won't let this die.**

I don't promise I won't let Danny die.

I'm kidding.

Maybe.

Oh, you'll find out. . . in time.


End file.
